


Happily Never After

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Series: Adara Birthday Celebration [28]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Derek Hale, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because he's Hurting so much, Canon-Typical Violence, Derek Hale Being an Asshole, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Don’t copy to another site, Dreams, Emotionally Hurt Derek Hale, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Spells & Enchantments, emotional torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 07:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17219417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: Someone was saying his name, but it sounded like they were speaking to him from underwater. His brain felt foggy, there were hands on his shoulders, and the voice was getting louder. Derek forced his eyes open, everything blurry and faces hovering over him.“Derek,” one of them said urgently, and he winced when a flashlight was being shined in his eyes. “Derek, can you hear me?”“Is he okay?” Another voice asked from out of sight, everything still sounding muffled. “Did I get him out? Is he okay?”“Stiles, you need to stay down, it took a toll,” another voice insisted.“Is Derek okay?!” Stiles demanded urgently, his voice coming clearer now, some of the fog dissipating. “Deaton!”





	Happily Never After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adara/gifts).



> Happy Birthday [Adara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adara/pseuds/adara)!!!
> 
> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis

“Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

Derek let out a grunt when he felt something jump on him, but thankfully it just crawled over him, seeming to decide to go towards another target pretty much the second it landed on him.

“Papa, papa!”

“Derek,” a tired voice beside him groaned. “Your daughter’s awake.”

“Before sunrise, she’s your daughter,” he mumbled back sleepily, burying his face in his pillow.

“Don’t quote _Lion King_ at me, a-hole. And the sun’s already up.” There was a loud groan and then his husband sat up. “Yes, honey? What is it?”

“Papa, it’s _Christmas_!”

“Is it, now? Did Santa come?”

“He did, he did!”

“Let’s go take a look. Daddy will be down when he drags his lazy butt out of bed.”

Derek let out a grunt when he was smacked in the ass, but he didn’t move otherwise, listening to his husband climb out of bed with their daughter and head out of the room. Derek wanted to whine and just keep lying there indefinitely, but he knew he shouldn’t. Like she’d said, it was Christmas, and while he wasn’t really a big believer in celebrating this holiday, as long as it was in a non-religious sense, he tolerated it.

Besides, he loved how excited his daughter got when ‘Santa’ visited. Even if ‘Santa’ was him and his husband staying awake all night trying to figure out how to wrap the stupid play-set they’d bought her.

Sorry, that _Santa_  had bought her. Or made her. Whatever.

“Derek! Santa came by, you should come down and see what you got!”

Letting out a small grunt, Derek inhaled deeply, then forced himself out of bed, rubbing at his head and yawning while shuffling to the door in his sweats. He padded down the stairs, still rubbing the back of his head, and then walked into the living room.

He affected a surprised look, his daughter grinning at him broadly from the floor, and moved forward to scoop her up. She laughed excitedly while he held her upside down.

“Is this all for you? Santa must think you were such a good girl this year, but we know better, don’t we, papa?”

“Daddy!” She insisted with a laugh, flailing her arms. “Put me down!”

Derek swung her from side to side a little bit, then walked over to his husband and dropped her onto him.

Stiles let out a loud ‘oof’ when she landed right on his stomach, and then wrapped his arms around her, kissing at her cheek and forehead repeatedly while she laughed and insisted he was gross, shoving her hands in his face.

Stiles let her go so she could go find some presents and Derek sat down on the armrest of the armchair Stiles was sitting in, rubbing at his back and watching Laura try and find her first present to open.

“You need to dye your beard,” Stiles informed him, tugging on Derek’s beard lightly and smiling.

“What’s wrong with my beard?”

“There’s so much grey in it. I don’t like knowing I’m married to an old man.”

“I’m not old, I’m wise.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better,” Stiles teased, turning back to their daughter.

They both watched her in silence for a few seconds. She was crawling around trying to find the _perfect gift_ to open first. Derek felt she was very much like Stiles in that way.

“Last year,” Stiles said quietly enough that only Derek could hear.

He hummed in agreement, because it was true. This was the last year of ‘Santa.’ Laura was turning nine in February, she was going to find out at school soon. It’d be best if they told her before she found out on her own.

“Your dad coming by later?”

“Yeah, I spoke to him before I went to bed. He was on the graveyard shift so he said he’d come by for dinner.”

“Perfect. Cora’s coming by with Max, too.”

“I’m glad she can make it this year.” Stiles leaned into Derek, the two of them watching their daughter unwrap presents and squeal in excitement.

Derek still thought this life was too good to be true sometimes. He kept expecting to wake up every day and find out it wasn’t real, but after fifteen years of being together, he was starting to believe it a little more every day and he loved every second of it.

He and Stiles had gotten together when Derek finally bit the bullet and asked him out to coffee back when he was twenty-seven and Stiles was twenty-four. They’d gone for coffee, and then things had kind of... progressed from there. They bought a place together, got married when Derek was thirty and Stiles was twenty-seven, and by the time Derek was thirty-one, they sat down and had the children talk.

Stiles really wanted kids. Derek wasn’t so sure, because the thought of bringing a new life into this horrible world was almost more than he could handle. But he acknowledged that he wanted a child of his own, even if it felt selfish, and the more they spoke about it, the more he wanted that. Eventually, they agreed on what they wanted and spoke to both Cora and Malia.

Malia, as it turned out, _really_  liked being pregnant. She’d had three kids of her own, and been surrogate for two others in the pack, so they spoke to her about being their surrogate. She agreed, provided she didn’t have to have sex with Stiles again, which was both hilarious and insulting, if Stiles was to be believed.

Cora they spoke to because Derek really wanted a kid that was both his and Stiles’. He figured if they could get an egg from Cora, well, at least the baby would have some Hale in there. She wasn’t really sure at first, but after a year of thinking about it, she finally agreed to it. Stiles was the sperm donor, and nine months later, they had a beautiful baby girl.

Cora cried when Derek told her they were naming her Laura. Stiles had said she looked more like a Laura, and Derek offered to have Claudia as her middle name.

Laura Claudia Stilinski-Hale. She was the second best thing in Derek’s life, Stiles being the first.

Actually, sometimes she was the first and Stiles was the second, it alternated based on the day.

All he knew was he loved his little family. He’d never thought he’d live long enough to have one. Now, he was forty years old, married to the love of his life, had a daughter he loved more than anything, owned a _minivan_ , coached soccer... He didn’t know how things had ended up this way, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Daddy, this one is for you!”

“It is?” Derek pretended to look surprised, taking the present from her and seeing it was from Stiles. “What do you think papa got me?”

“Something fun!” she said with a toothy smile.

“Something fun. Let’s see if you’re right.” Derek unwrapped the gift, frowning a little, because he didn’t understand, and Stiles had to snatch it out of his hand.

“Wrong order, you saw nothing! Hey sweetie, wanna grab that other one under the tree? The green and blue one from Santa?”

“Okay!” Laura hurried back to the tree, searching for the present, then brought it back over to Derek.

He gave Stiles a confused look, then unwrapped it and almost choked. “Stiles!”

“What? It’s from Santa,” he insisted, a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

It was the newest Ipad, which cost upwards of two thousand dollars. The first present he’d opened was obviously a cover for it. Derek wanted to be mad about it, because it was a lot of money and he didn’t need Stiles spending money on him, but he acknowledged that he’d really wanted this present and Stiles loved him.

Of _course_  he would spoil him on Christmas, it was the kind of thing Stiles would do.

Sighing, he leaned down to kiss Stiles lightly on the lips. “Thank you Stiles.”

“And Santa!” Laura insisted.

“Yes, and Santa.” Derek kissed Stiles again while Laura turned to grab another present, whispering, “Thanks Santa.” against his lips.

“You’re welcome.” Stiles kissed him again, then turned back to Laura, wrapping his own arm around Derek’s waist and watching their daughter.

It was a fun morning of opening presents, and when they were done, Derek went to make pancakes. Stiles kept sticking his fingers in the batter, and Derek threatened to toss him out of the kitchen, but everyone present knew he’d never do it so Stiles just kept trying to sneakily poke at the batter.

They sat down and had Nutella-filled pancakes together, then headed out to Scott’s place for a few hours to spend Christmas with uncle Scott and aunt Kira. Stiles kept an eye on the time, since they didn’t want to be late getting home to cook dinner for the sheriff. He was bringing the turkey and the stuffing, so Derek had to do everything else.

Stiles and Laura would ‘help,’ but their help wasn’t really so much _help_  as it was them stealing food.

Laura had definitely gotten that from Stiles. Little mischievous thing. But at least she was a Werewolf, which she’d gotten from Derek, and she shared a lot of their features because of Cora, which Derek loved.

He loved everything about his life. This perfect, amazing life he’d more than earned after all the shit he’d gone through. The shit both of them had gone through.

They left Scott’s place around three to make sure they had time to get food started. Derek had Laura in one arm, and the other wrapped around Stiles, kissing his temple while they walked down the driveway back to the car.

Once everyone was buckled in, Derek headed back for the house, Stiles’ hand falling onto his thigh. Derek glanced over at him and saw Stiles smiling.

“I love you, Derek.”

Derek smiled and reached down to thread his fingers through Stiles’, bringing his hand to his lips and kissing the back of it. “I love you too, Stiles.”

He held his hand the whole way home.

* * *

Derek always hated the holidays, because Laura got intolerable when school came back around. She never wanted to go back, and Derek understood. School sucked for regular people, but it was worse for Werewolf children.

She was really good about understanding that she had to be careful, but before she could really control her senses, everything was always too loud, and things smelled too strong, and everything was just generally awful and made her miserable. Derek wished it could be easier for her, but all he could do was promise her ice cream on the way home as long as she didn’t tell papa.

He smiled so brightly when he saw her running for the van when she got out seven hours later that it actually hurt his face. He slid open the back door for her and she practically leapt into the back of the van, sitting down and getting herself buckled in properly while Derek watched before he shut the door.

When he got back behind the wheel, he asked about her day and laughed when she whined about math. Derek didn’t even remember what learning math was like, it had been so long ago for him.

“Daddy, are you old?”

“I’m pretty old, but don’t tell papa I admitted that.” He winked at her in the rearview mirror and she smiled before looking out the window.

They stopped at the diner in town to get the promised ice cream, and Derek actually spent a long time staring at himself in the side of the napkin dispenser. His beard really _did_  have a lot of grey in it, and while he knew forty wasn’t _old_ , seeing it made him _feel_  old and a small part of him worried Stiles had commented on it because Derek was getting up there in age.

Sure, Stiles was only three years younger, but somehow being _forty_  while Stiles was _only_  thirty-seven felt like a huge age gap all of a sudden. Maybe he _should_  dye his beard. His hair was still black, so he wasn’t sure why his beard was already getting some grey in it, but maybe he should try to work on that.

“What’s wrong, daddy?”

Derek turned to her and smiled, grabbing a napkin to wipe chocolate sauce off her cheek. “Nothing, sweetheart. Just thinking about papa.”

“Is he at home?”

“He’s at home today.” Derek smiled.

Stiles was lucky that he got to work from home a few times a week. Derek was a freelance photographer, so he got to work virtually whenever he wanted, but he couldn’t do his job from home. It worked out well for them, though. Whenever Derek had to be out, Stiles usually ensured he was working from home that day and he’d go pick Laura up from school.

They knew they could put her in daycare or after school activities, but school was hard enough with her developing senses, and Stiles often spoke about how much he’d hated seeing so little of his parents growing up, so they’d decided it was best to just pick her up after school. She wasn’t distracting anymore now that she was older, so it was easy for them to go about their day once she was home.

She was a really well-behaved child, something Malia was really annoyed about given her three little ones were veritable monsters. Stiles just laughed about it, because he was waiting for Laura to turn into a brat like him but so far, she was very similar to Derek personality-wise barring her occasional mischievous streak.

Derek was glad for that, at least.

Once the ice cream was finished, they headed home with Derek reminding Laura to keep the ice cream a secret. She pretended to lock her lips and throw away the key, and Derek smiled when they pulled into the driveway.

Stiles greeted them at the door, and commented on the delay, but didn’t call Derek out on the ice cream, even though he gave him a knowing look after kissing him. He’d probably tasted some of the sugary treat on his lips.

“I started dinner, but I have to finish something up for work, can you take over?”

“Sure.” Derek patted Laura’s head when she started past him to head to her room. “Laura, homework.”

“Yes, daddy!”

Derek smiled, kissed Stiles on the cheek on his way by, and headed for the kitchen to finish up dinner.

He called everyone down once it was ready and they ate together at the table, both he and Stiles listening attentively while Laura recounted her _horrible_  first day back at school. Stiles insisted he was very proud of her for _not_  biting Andrew the jerk when he stole her favourite eraser, and Derek just thought about how much trouble the boys her age were going to be in when she was older.

They finished dinner, then Stiles went to help Laura with her homework while Derek lounged on the couch and read a book. Afterwards, the three of them watched a movie together, Laura’s pick, and then they tucked her in.

Once she was in bed, they headed back downstairs. Derek lay down on the couch with a groan and Stiles crawled on top of him, resting his chin on his hands on top of Derek’s chest and staring at him with a dopey smile.

“What?” Derek asked, rubbing at Stiles’ back with one hand, the other up behind his own head.

“Nothing. Just love you.”

“Love you, too.” Derek still couldn’t believe this was his.

Stiles leaned up a bit to kiss him, then turned to rest his cheek against Derek’s chest, facing the TV. Derek turned his head as well, and they lay there watching the Food Network for a while, Derek occasionally listening in to see if Laura was sleeping.

She’d gotten good at pretending to sleep lately while actually staying up late to read under her covers. It sounded like she was sleeping today though, which was good, since she had to be up early for school tomorrow.

They were enjoying a quiet evening together, watching chefs make fools of themselves by trying to combine impossible ingredients together, when there was a loud crack outside and they both jolted. Stiles hastily got to his knees so Derek could sit up, both of them looking out the living room window.

“What was that?” Stiles asked, barely a second before there was urgent knocking on the door.

Derek frowned, grabbing Stiles’ arms and making him move off him before getting to his feet. “Stay here.”

“Sure,” Stiles said uncertainly. He also got to his feet, but didn’t move from where he was by the couch.

Derek approached the front door cautiously, wondering if maybe someone had crashed into their van, but the knocking was incessant, and sounded so urgent that it was kind of worrying. Things had been good in Beacon Hills for years, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to open the door. He didn’t know why, but he had a really bad feeling. Like his world was about to get turned upside down.

Hesitating for a brief moment, he grit his teeth, then pulled open the door.

“Oh thank God! It worked! Derek!” Derek stumbled back a step, because someone was hugging him around the middle so hard it was actually almost painful. “Oh, thank you. I swear, we didn’t think it was going to work, but it did, and you’re here, and you’re _okay_! We thought you were being tortured in here!”

When he pulled back to look up at Derek, he frowned, and Derek felt like someone had punched a hole through his chest, because he didn’t understand.

“Dude, why do you look so _old_?” He shook his head. “Never mind, doesn’t matter. Come on, we gotta get you out of here before yo—”

“Babe?” Stiles asked from behind him, moving out of the living room and gripping a golf club in both hands. “Who is it?”

Derek turned to look at his husband, hearing the figure at the door sputter incoherently at the sight of him. Stiles looked confused, and a little horrified, and Derek could understand why.

Because when he turned back to who was in front of him at the door, he was looking at _Stiles_. But not _his_  Stiles. Not his husband Stiles. But a younger Stiles. A Stiles he’d once known, one from his past. Like a de-aged version of Stiles.

And de-aged Stiles was gaping at his husband like he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Babe?” Stiles asked from behind him.

“You’re not real,” Derek said to de-aged Stiles, because this couldn’t be real. This wasn’t right, why was this Stiles here? Who _was_  he?! Derek had just spent the last seventeen years of his life getting his shit together. He’d spent fifteen of them happily with Stiles, ten of them married to him, eight of them raising a beautiful daughter, and he did _not_  have the mental capacity for whatever bullshit was going on right now. “You’re not _real_ ,” he repeated to de-aged Stiles.

De-aged Stiles seemed to jerk, as if realizing Derek had spoken, and his face fell. “Wha—no! No, no, no!” He insisted when Derek tried to shut the door on him. He just darted into the house, dancing around Derek before he could grab him and throw him out.

Stiles moved to stand between de-aged Stiles and the stairs, likely trying to form a barrier between this _thing_  and their daughter.

“Derek, wait, _wait_!” De-aged Stiles insisted, holding both hands out when Derek advanced on him. “Derek, it’s _me_! It’s me, I _swear_!”

“It must be some kind of shape-shifter,” Stiles said, holding the club over his head and narrowing his eyes at de-aged Stiles. “Stupid of it to go for a weird-looking, younger version of me, though.”

De-aged Stiles rounded on his husband, sputtering slightly before insisting, “ _Weird_ -looking?! I’m not weird-looking! You’re just a _fat_  older version of _me_!” he shouted.

“I’m not fat!” Stiles insisted, offended.

“Get out of my house,” Derek snapped, going to grab for him, but de-aged Stiles danced out of his reach and into the living room.

Derek and Stiles hurried in after him, Derek going into his Beta shift and Stiles holding the club higher over his head.

“Derek, you have to listen to me!” he insisted, moving around the back of the couch. “This isn’t real. This is in your head, you’re _dreaming_! You got hit by a spell, remember? We were going after that Witch? She almost hit me, but you pushed me out of the way.”

“That happened years ago, and we beat her,” Stiles snapped, moving a little closer to de-aged Stiles. Derek grabbed him and pulled him back, not wanting him to get too close.

“No, it didn’t! It happened _four days ago_!” De-aged Stiles was looking only at Derek when he spoke, expression desperate.

It reminded Derek of something. That look on his face. It brought back a memory of Stiles saying, “Where’s my dad?” with tears on his face.

De-aged Stiles was staring at him like he couldn’t bear for him not to believe him. Like this was _killing_  him, but he needed Derek to listen. To understand. To _believe_  him.

But he couldn’t. Derek _couldn’t_! Because he remembered every single day of the past seventeen years. He remembered that day, with the Witch, and how she’d almost hit Stiles. He remembered getting hit. And he remembered every single day after that. Healing from the injury, getting with Stiles, Stiles getting his first real job, them getting married, Malia carrying Laura to term, Laura’s first day of school. _Everything_. He remembered every single thing, so this _had_  to be a lie. De-aged Stiles was a _lie_ , someone sent to throw Derek’s perfect life into disarray.

“I don’t know who you are,” Derek said, voice low and dangerous, “or who sent you, but you need to leave _right now_.”

De-aged Stiles looked like he was going to cry, then he let out a shout of pain and flickered slightly, both hands coming up to clutch at his head. Derek and Stiles both jerked back, de-aged Stiles screaming while he continued to flicker before settling, breathing hard.

“Not yet,” de-aged Stiles insisted, breathing heavily and sweating. “Scott, not _yet_!”

“Get out of our house,” Stiles insisted, still standing a little behind Derek with the club raised. “Right now.”

De-aged Stiles was panting, using the couch as support. Whatever had just happened seemed to have hurt him. A lot. He looked up at Derek, eyes filled with pain, but also desperation. Like he couldn’t leave, because Derek didn’t believe him.

Like he was willing to take whatever pain he had to until Derek _listened_  to him.

“Derek,” de-aged Stiles said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, but I have to do this.”

Derek moved fully in front of Stiles, wondering if he was about to hurt him somehow, but all de-aged Stiles did was let out a small breath, and ask a question.

“You’ve been married to, uh, _Stiles_  for a few years now, right?”

Derek frowned, not knowing where he was going with this. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

De-aged Stiles nodded, then winced and wrapped one arm around his middle, like his stomach hurt. His other hand clenched into the material of the back of the couch tightly, but he kept his eyes locked on Derek. “If that’s true, then tell me, Derek: what’s my real name?”

Derek opened his mouth to answer, then paused, because he couldn’t think of it. He was sure he knew it, he _had_  to know it. After all, it was on their marriage certificate. Derek had _said_  it at their wedding, he was positive. He knew it, he _did_.

He just couldn’t think of it.

He turned to his husband for assistance, but the man just stared back him, waiting for him to answer without offering anything himself.

“Stiles?” he asked, feeling the pit in his stomach beginning to widen, his chest beginning to ache. “Stiles?” he said again, a little desperately.

But he didn’t answer, he just kept staring at Derek, waiting for him to speak.

“He doesn’t know my name, Derek,” de-aged Stiles said softly from the couch. “Because _you_  don’t know my name. And this is your dream, so he only knows what you do, and you don’t know that.”

“This is _insane_ ,” Stiles insisted. Except he wasn’t Stiles, was he? “Derek, tell him my name!”

Derek felt like he was going to be sick. He took a step away from... from whatever the Stiles holding the club was, moving a bit closer to the de-aged one by the couch.

“What’s your name, Stiles?” Derek demanded, eyes locked on him.

The man he thought was his husband sputtered for a second, then lowered the club and brought his free hand up to his chest, palm flat against his heart. “Derek,” he said slowly, eying him and giving him the same desperate expression as the de-aged Stiles behind him had. “Babe. You _know_  me. You kno—”

“Answer the question!” Derek shouted.

The older Stiles in front of him jerked back, startled, and just stared at him, looking like he was going to cry. He opened his mouth, closed it, but he didn’t answer.

He _couldn’t_  answer.

Because he didn’t know Stiles’ real name, either.

Because he wasn’t Stiles.

“You’re not real,” Derek said, the words like broken glass in his mouth. “You’re not—this place, this life, none of it is _real_!”

“Daddy?”

“Oh God,” de-aged Stiles— _real_  Stiles—said from behind him, horrified. “Oh my God.”

Laura walked into the living room, fake-Stiles hurrying to her and picking her up, hugging her tightly to his chest while staring at Derek. Laura turned in his arms to look at him, as well.

“Daddy, what’s going on?”

Derek felt like his entire world was coming apart. He felt like he was about to lose his fucking mind.

He turned away from the two of them, catching sight of Stiles by the couch. He had one hand covering his mouth, and looked like he wished he could be anywhere but there. He looked fucking _devastated_. Like he’d just ruined Derek’s life.

But he hadn’t, had he? Because this wasn’t real. None of it was real. Not his life with Stiles, not his daughter, none of it. This was all a dream. A fucking horrible, terrible, abhorrent dream.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said behind his hand, his eyes watering. “Derek, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—I’m sorry.”

Derek didn’t want to accept his apology. There was nothing to apologize for. This wasn’t real, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t a big deal.

Except it was. It _was_  a big deal. Derek felt like his insides were melting, like his entire world was collapsing. His vision was starting to darken around the edges, like he was having a panic attack, but he didn’t feel like he was moving, or even breathing.

“Derek,” Stiles said, moving around the couch quickly. “Please. Please, I need you. Please, come with me.” Stiles held his hand out, looking desperate again, tears spilling over his lashes. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry. Please. Please come back with me.”

It occurred to him then why Stiles was so scared. Why he’d insisted ‘not yet’ before.

Because Derek could stay. Derek could choose to stay here, live this life, have his family. He could stay with this fake Stiles and this fake daughter, and he could live a long, happy life.

Except he knew he couldn’t. Because the illusion had broken, and they weren’t real. And he knew that now, and he couldn’t live this lie, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much he _loved_  it.

“Derek,” fake Stiles said from behind him.

Derek turned to glance over his shoulder. Laura was sobbing into his neck. He had his hand in her hair, bouncing her slightly, trying to make her calm down, but fake Stiles was crying, too.

“Derek, please. Please don’t leave me.”

“Derek,” real Stiles insisted, Derek turning back to him. “Derek, _please_.”

It was the please that did it. The sheer desperation in that one word, the frantic look in Stiles’ eye, the panic at the thought that Derek was actually going to stay. He couldn’t do that to him. Derek would never be happy knowing this wasn’t real.

That illusion had broken the second Stiles had knocked on his front door.

He turned back to who he wished was his husband and who he thought was his daughter and said, “I’m sorry.”

Then he reached out and took Stiles’ hand.

* * *

Someone was saying his name, but it sounded like they were speaking to him from underwater. His brain felt foggy, there were hands on his shoulders, and the voice was getting louder. Derek forced his eyes open, everything blurry and faces hovering over him.

“Derek,” one of them said urgently, and he winced when a flashlight was being shined in his eyes. “Derek, can you hear me?”

“Is he okay?” Another voice asked from out of sight, everything still sounding muffled. “Did I get him out? Is he okay?”

“Stiles, you need to stay down, it took a toll,” another voice insisted.

“Is Derek okay?!” Stiles demanded urgently, his voice coming clearer now, some of the fog dissipating. “Deaton!”

“Derek?” Deaton asked, his face coming more into focus. He was the one shining the light in his eyes. “Derek, can you hear me?”

Everything snapped back into clarity in an instant. Deaton’s face sharpened, the other figure above him a worried-looking Scott. Stiles was still arguing beside him, with Lydia snapping at him to lie back down.

Derek reached up with one hand, his arm feeling heavy as lead, and pushed Deaton’s hand aside so he could sit up.

“Derek!” The relief in Stiles’ voice was painful to hear. Derek turned to look at him, seeing him sighing and looking at the heavens, as if in thanks.

Derek looked down at his own hands, then turned to glance at one of the windowed cabinets. His reflection stared back at him, and he felt his stomach clench at the sight. Because it was him, but it wasn’t the him he remembered.

He was that Derek Stiles had been talking about. The one who’d knocked him aside and taken a spell aimed at him. The one who was only twenty-five years old.

Before he’d asked Stiles out. Before they’d gotten married. Before they had Laura.

Derek felt like he was going to be sick. He threw his legs over the side of the table, and almost fell when he jumped off it, his legs feeling weird and heavy, like he hadn’t used them for a while. Scott grabbed his arm to help him up and he shoved him away roughly, using the table to steady himself instead.

“Derek,” Deaton said cautiously, one hand out towards him. “Do you know where you are?”

Derek looked around, at all the faces he knew. The ones he’d known differently for the past seventeen years.

Except it hadn’t been seventeen years. It had been four days with seventeen years worth of memories crammed into his head. It was a life he’d dreamt up for himself, one he wanted, and would never have. A future he had hoped for, and was never going to get.

“Derek,” Stiles said, sliding off the table.

“I’m fine,” Derek forced out, looking around unsteadily and moving towards the door. “I’m going home.”

Home meant the loft, now. It was like a punch to the gut. He didn’t have a cute little house out in the suburbs. He didn’t own a minivan. He wasn’t married to Stiles.

God, he was _really_  going to be sick.

Derek stumbled out of the back room, three different people calling after him. He only made it a few steps before he fell to his knees and threw up. It burned on its way up, and most of it was clear, like he didn’t have anything in his stomach and was just throwing up bile.

Maybe he _was_  just throwing up bile. If he hadn’t eaten in four days, it explained why he felt so weak. Why everything was heavy. Why he was hurting so much.

It explained Stiles’ desperation to get him out. Why he’d insisted they had to go. Because maybe it had taken four days for him to get into his dream, and Stiles didn’t know if Derek would hold out until he could make it back in there.

“Derek—”

A hand fell on his shoulder and he slapped it away violently without looking to see who it was. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he spat, struggling to get back to his feet. He almost slipped in his own vomit, but managed to make it through the double doors at the back of the clinic.

He didn’t see the Camaro, but he didn’t care. He would walk home, he just needed to get away from this.

He needed to get away from _Stiles_.

Because he was there. He’d seen it. He’d seen it all. Stiles _knew_. He knew what Derek wanted, how he felt, what his dream was. He knew that Derek’s one and only wish was to live a long, happy life with him. Stiles fucking _knew_!

And he was _still_  following him, like Derek’s world hadn’t just come tumbling down around him.

“Derek, will you just _wait_ ,” Stiles insisted, reaching for him again.

Derek slapped at him harder this time, whipping around and seeing Stiles recoil, hand against his chest, like Derek had really hurt him.

He was both glad and devastated to have hurt him. He didn’t want him touching him again.

“Just stay the fuck away from me!” Derek stumbled back a step, almost fell. “Don’t _touch_  me, don’t even come _near_  me. Just _leave me alone_!”

“Stiles.” Lydia was beside him, tugging on his arm, while Stiles stared at Derek like he’d just ripped his heart out of his chest. “Stiles, just let him be. Parrish is coming, he’ll make sure he gets home. Just let him go.”

It looked like Stiles didn’t want to let him go, but when he took a step, his knees buckled and he let out a sharp cry, falling to his knees and clutching his head. Lydia called his name, and Derek wanted to be worried.

He did. He really did. Because it was Stiles, and he cared about Stiles. He cared so fucking much.

But he couldn’t right now. His head was a mess, he didn’t know what was real, and everything had just gone to shit. So he couldn’t worry about Stiles right now. Whether this was real Stiles or fake Stiles or fucking doppelganger Stiles, he didn’t care. He couldn’t. Lydia cared, and Scott burst out of the clinic, so he cared, and that was enough.

People could care about Stiles while Derek went to have a mental breakdown somewhere, because he needed a second to get his head back on straight.

So he turned and stumbled out towards the road, heading back towards the loft and trying to block out all the sounds around him, because he needed to think. He just needed to think.

He’d only made it four blocks before a car eased to a stop beside him, the window on the passenger side rolling down.

“Derek,” Parrish said. “I’m not going to ask you any questions. I won’t even say anything. But can you please let me drive you home?”

Derek just shook his head and kept walking. Parrish kept up with him, going at a snail’s pace beside him. He didn’t say anything, he just stayed right by his side.

He managed two more blocks before his body told him _enough_ , and he turned and pulled open the door. He sat down, but it was too hard to buckle himself in, so he just slammed the door.

True to his word, Parrish said nothing. He just sped up and drove him back to his home.

Back to the loft. Because that was where he lived. Alone. Because he was twenty-five, and he didn’t have a job, and he didn’t have _Stiles_ , and his life was still shit.

Parrish parked close to the door, then climbed out. He helped Derek out of the car and up the stairs into the loft. Derek pulled away from him as soon as they were through the door and stumbled to the couch.

He fell onto it face first, and Parrish seemed to realize that was as far as he was going to get. He left the loft, shutting the sliding door behind him. Derek listened to him head back down the stairs and out of the building. He got into his car, turned around, wheels crunching against gravel, and then drove away.

Then, and only then, did Derek begin to cry.

* * *

It took days for Derek’s body to return to normal after what had happened. Melissa had been forced to come by to help him with his diet, because none of the food he ate would stay in his stomach.

Eventually, he got himself back under control. His food stayed down, his arms and legs didn’t weigh a hundred pounds each, and when he tried turning into a wolf, it actually worked. Melissa told him not to do that again though, since it had taken him hours to change back, though being a wolf wasn’t so bad.

It allowed him to curl up into a ball under his bed and pretend the outside world didn’t exist, at least.

Deaton came by a few times, as well. Just checking in, making sure he wasn’t still feeling after-effects of the spell he was under. Derek insisted he was fine, but anyone with eyes could see that he wasn’t. Because he wasn’t.

He _wasn’t_  fine.

The spell had really done a number on him. Every time he closed his eyes he could see an older version of Stiles smiling at him, sitting beside him in the car, kissing him, telling him he loved him. He could still feel Laura in his arms, hear her laughter, picture her brilliant smile while eating ice cream and promising not to tell papa.

It hurt. It hurt so much he could hardly stand it, and he knew that was the point. Because Deaton had told him what the spell he’d been hit with was, and what it was supposed to do.

The spell was meant to reflect the recipient’s greatest wish while still being realistic. That meant that, in Derek’s case, it couldn’t bring back his family because he’d know it wasn’t be real, but it _could_  give him a future he’d only ever dreamt of. A future with Stiles, where they were happy, when things didn’t go wrong every other day. And the goal of the dream was for the recipient to be so immersed they could never be woken up from it and would just slowly waste away, their mind overtaken by this fantasy.

Too bad this Witch hadn’t considered Derek’s fantasy could be broken by the person in it. How fitting that Derek would dream an entire life with Stiles, only for Stiles himself to break into his head and snap him out of it.

Though it was also why Derek was avoiding him like the plague right now.

It hurt to look at him. It hurt to even _think_  about him. And to know that Stiles had seen it, that Stiles _knew_  what the spell was, what this dream meant... Derek didn’t know if he could ever face him again. He didn’t know if he’d ever want to even _see_  him again.

Because he was never going to have that with Stiles, and before, when it hadn’t been a reality, when Stiles didn’t _know_ , it had been okay. Derek could handle it, because he was used to not getting what he wanted. But to have _had_  it. To have lived fifteen years with Stiles beside him, waking up every morning with him right there, being able to touch him, kiss him, just _be_  with him.

Derek hated this. He hated that he’d taken that hit for Stiles. He doubted anything Stiles dreamt up would’ve hurt half as much, because Stiles had things Derek didn’t. He still had his dad, he had his friends, he hadn’t lost as much as Derek had.

Not that he hadn’t lost anything, because Derek knew he had. His mother, his sanity, his confidence. Stiles had lost a lot, too, but for once, just _once_ , Derek wanted to believe _he_  had lost more. Because it felt like it this time. It _felt_  like he’d lost more. And he hated everything. He hated that he’d woken up at all.

They should’ve just let him die in his dreamworld. At least he’d have been happy.

“You can put your shirt back on,” Melissa said quietly, Derek shifting to grab it and yanking it back on over his head while getting to his feet and moving towards the kitchen. She stayed on the couch, putting various items away.

She’d been coming by at least once a day to check on him, which was unnecessary now. It had been almost two weeks, and he was _fine_.

At least physically.

“Derek,” she said softly from the couch while he went about pretending to grab something in the cupboard. He just wanted her to leave so he could be alone. “Have you—do you need to talk to someone?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he replied curtly, slamming the cupboard shut so hard it actually cracked. “I’m fine.”

Melissa appeared in the kitchen doorway and he turned to look at her. She had the saddest expression on her face. “Sweetie, you’re not fine. Physically, you’re in great shape, but we all know what the spell did to you. You should talk to someone. No one aside from Deaton and I have even _seen_  you since you woke up.” She gave him a look. “Scott said you climbed down the side of the building the other day when he and Stiles came by to check in.”

“I don’t need anyone coddling me, I’m fine,” he repeated, expression hard and trying to exude as much ‘go away’ aura as he could.

“We’re not coddling you, we care. We want you to be okay.”

“And I am,” he insisted, forcing a fake smile. “I’m okay. I’m fine. What happened meant nothing.”

Melissa didn’t believe him. It was perfectly obvious she didn’t believe him, but she clearly understood pushing wouldn’t help, so she just sighed and shook her head. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Might be a bit earlier, I have work.” She checked her watch. “Time to go check on the other broken boy.”

Derek frowned at her when she turned to head back into the living room and moved into the doorway, watching her gather her things and throwing a coat over her arm. He hesitated, because he felt like she’d said it as some kind of trap, but he had to know.

He _had_  to know. Because even if he didn’t want to see him, or look at him, or _think_  about him, he was literally all-consuming. He was everything, and Derek couldn’t pretend not to care. He couldn’t force himself not to care like he had that night two weeks ago.

“What broken boy?” he asked, hating himself for being so weak.

Melissa turned to him, and Derek was a little relieved to see she _hadn’t_  been setting a trap. The words had honestly just slipped out.

“Stiles,” she said softly. “Deaton and I have been taking turns visiting the two of you.”

“What’s wrong with Stiles?” The words were out before he could suck them back in. But... what _was_  wrong with Stiles? Derek knew there had been some kind of weird dog-monster attacks lately—not _Werewolves_ , they were _not_  dog-monsters—but as far as he knew, Malia and Scott had handled that on their own because it hadn’t been a big deal. Stiles wasn’t even there, so how had he managed to get injured?

“His mind,” Melissa said, moving towards the door. “It’s broken right now.”

Thoughts of the Nogitsune reared their ugly head and Derek went to cut her off, standing in front of her so she couldn’t leave. “What do you mean it’s broken?”

Melissa looked startled, like she’d forgotten Derek hadn’t spoken to anyone since waking up. Wasn’t like Deaton was a chatty Cathy, so this was really the most he’d gotten about Stiles in weeks, at this point.

She let out a small sigh, shaking her head. “What Stiles did to get you out wasn’t without consequences.”

Derek’s stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”

“He basically split his mind wide open so he could put a piece of it into yours to pull you out.” Melissa rearranged her coat on her arm, letting out another sigh. “Deaton said it could’ve killed him, and he knew that before doing it, but he did it anyway.” She glanced up at him. “For you.”

Of course he did. Because Stiles was a fucking idiot who didn’t see the value in his own life. Derek would’ve been _pissed_  if he’d woken up to find Stiles dead trying to help him. That wasn’t how this worked, Stiles didn’t put his fucking life on the line for Derek. He was human, he was _fragile_. He needed to _stop_  trying to be a hero before he got himself killed.

“Is he going to be okay?” He was honestly scared of the answer, because he remembered the Stiles in his head, screaming and flickering like a hologram. And he remembered Stiles chasing after him at the clinic before falling to his knees and clutching at his head in agony.

What if Stiles was permanently broken? What if doing what he’d done to help Derek had completely warped his mind and he was going to suffer through whatever this was for the rest of his life?

“Derek,” Melissa said, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. He must’ve looked worried, because she smiled reassuringly at him. “He’s gonna be fine. His mind is still healing, but Deaton said the danger’s passed. Apparently that kind of tear takes time to heal, so he’s been in a lot of pain, but he’s slowly getting better day by day. Deaton’s keeping an eye on him, says he should be back to normal in a few weeks.”

A few _weeks_?! It had already been _two_ , and Stiles _still_  wasn’t better?! He was so stupid, _why_  would he risk his life like that? And for _Derek_?!

Derek wanted to scream at him. He wanted to grab him and shake him and tell him he couldn’t _do_  things like that because if he died, people would _care_. People would miss him, and grieve, and be completely and utterly _destroyed_! And he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_  continue to risk his stupid life for someone like Derek! Someone _nobody_  would miss!

But if he screamed at him, he’d have to see him. They’d have to be in the same room, and Derek couldn’t do that. He couldn’t be near Stiles right now, he needed more time. Hell, he might _never_  be able to be near Stiles ever again. If he could just... erase Stiles’ memory, have him forget what he saw, it wouldn’t be so hard. Because then only Derek would know.

If only Derek knew, it was exactly what it had been. A dream. A stupid, impossible dream. But Stiles _did_  know, and that made it all too real. And Stiles had probably told Scott. And his dad. And the pack. And maybe even his barber, because Stiles talked a lot, and there was no way he hadn’t shared what he’d seen. There was no way he hadn’t told _everyone_  about the dream Derek had had, where he was married to Stiles, and they had a little house in the suburbs, and a minivan, and a fucking _daughter_.

He hated that Stiles had pulled him out. He should’ve just been left in there to die, nobody would’ve missed him.

“Right,” Derek finally said. “That’s good. I hope he feels better.”

Melissa smiled, squeezed his arm, then moved around him to leave the loft. Before she shut the door, she turned back to him and hesitated. “Derek. I know we don’t... we don’t really talk, you and I. I know you might think I’m not someone you can reach out to if you need help, but just because I’m Scott’s mother doesn’t mean I can’t care about the whole pack. Because I do. If you ever want to talk, I’m here to listen. Without judgement, and without repeating anything.”

For a second, Derek considered it. He considered turning around and asking her to stay, sitting down with her, spilling everything. All of the pain and the guilt and the _want_  he’d been feeling for _years_. All the emotions that kept hitting him unexpectedly, all the things he desperately craved in his life but couldn’t have.

A mother’s hand on his forehead telling him everything was going to be okay. A father’s arm around his shoulders insisting he was doing his best. Stiles’ lips against his, because somehow, magically, he felt the same way. An Alpha who actually knew what he was doing, a town where people didn’t die every day because Derek wasn’t enough to keep it safe, a territory that wasn’t constantly being invaded.

Derek wanted that. He wanted to just sit down with someone who would _listen_  and just spew out everything he’d been feeling since the day Laura had died.

But instead, he turned and said. “Have a good day.”

Melissa sighed, nodded once, then shut the loft door.

Derek stripped on his way to the stairs, bounding up them while shifting and then crawled under his bed once he was in full wolf form. He curled into a ball, brought his tail around his face, and closed his eyes.

They should’ve left him inside that stupid dream.

* * *

As much as Derek was enjoying wallowing in self-pity, he recognized that the pack needed him. He got voicemails from Scott all the time ranging from worry to anger to frustration. He asked him to come by and help with problems, and would call back a day later coldly telling him it had been dealt with.

Derek knew he shouldn’t ignore calls for help, because one of them might be fatal, and he would _die_  if the fatality ended up being Stiles, but they’d survived for a few years without him. He was sure they could continue to survive without him.

But he acknowledged he had to stop. This wasn’t the first time his entire world had come crashing down around him, it was just harder to pick up the pieces because it was a different kind of world destruction.

The last time had been losing his family, which had been life-changing, and devastating. This time was different because it was a peek into a life he _could’ve_  had. One he wanted so badly he could hardly stand it, but it hadn’t been real. None of it had been real.

So he had to just move on, like he’d done when his family had died. He had to pick up the few pieces of himself he had left, glue them back together, and move on with his life.

That’s why the next time Scott called, Derek actually answered.

_“Nice of you to join us,”_ Scott said, clearly incapable of understanding the magnitude of torture Derek had been put through. _“Was starting to wonder if you were dead.”_

“What do you want, Scott?”

_“What do you know about Changelings?”_

“Appear human but are definitely not. Feed on human flesh, true forms reflected in a mirror, killed by fire. Why?”

_“Why do you think?”_ Scott asked.

His attitude was doing nothing for Derek’s mood. He considered hanging up on him.

“They can’t feed off Werewolves,” Derek informed him, forcing himself to ignore the tone. “We’re less vulnerable to their attacks, so they tend to go for humans. I’d say keep the more human members of the pack away from the fight. Lydia’s more human than Supernatural, so try to have her avoid contact with it.”

_“That would’ve been great to know before Stiles went out looking for the stupid thing.”_

Because of _course_ Stiles had gone out looking for a Changeling. Why _wouldn’t_ he go out looking for trouble? Stiles was literally looking to court death, at this point, and Derek was going to tie that idiot to a chair one day and tell him to just fucking _stay_.

“Can’t you keep him out of trouble for ten fucking seconds?” Derek demanded angrily.

_“No! Haven’t you noticed? Stiles doesn’t listen to **anyone**! And the thing went after his dad, you really think he was gonna let that fly?”_

Derek got to his feet angrily and began hunting for some socks, because of course, now he had to go _find_  the idiot before he got himself _killed_. Just because Stiles ran with wolves didn’t mean he fucking _was_  one, when was he going to get that into his stupid head?!

“You’re a fucking terrible Alpha,” Derek snarled into the phone, feeling his eyes beginning to burn with anger. “You should take better care of your pack.”

_“That’s rich, coming from **you**. You ignored my calls for days on end, you can’t talk about being there for your pack. At least I didn’t fucking **kill**  one of mine!”_

It was like a slap to the face, Derek actually freezing in the middle of his apartment, thoughts of Boyd shooting to the forefront. He knew Scott hadn’t meant to say it, because he instantly cursed and tried to backtrack, but Derek cut him off because he didn’t want to hear it.

“Just fucking find Stiles before he gets himself _killed_.” Then, he hung up.

Derek got his shoes on, then grabbed his jacket and keys and left the loft. He was in the Camaro and peeling out of the lot before even figuring out where he was going. He ended up having to pull over and get his phone out so he could look into where Changelings liked to make camp.

It was hard, because most of them tended to just pass as human and live normal lives with the occasional human snack. So really, it could be anyone in town, and they could be fucking _anywhere_.

Focussing on the Changeling wasn’t going to help, so he instead decided to focus on Stiles. If Stiles were after a monster, trying to lure it into some kind of trap, where would he go?

That was easy, the Preserve. Because for some reason, Stiles seemed to forget that pretty much _everything_  had an advantage over him in the Preserve. It was like he _wanted_  to get killed, Derek wished he’d stop and just _think_  every now and then.

Though he acknowledged Stiles’ dumbest ideas tended to follow his dad being injured, so he supposed he could cut him some slack. He wasn’t going to, but he _could_  if he truly wanted to.

Derek made his way to the Preserve and drove up and down the back road, checking all the lots until, sure enough, there was the Jeep. He parked beside it and climbed out, sampling the air. His gums itched at the scent of blood and he wolfed out instantly, racing through the trees and following the scent of both Stiles _and_  his blood. Because of _course_  Stiles was bleeding. He was so fucking fragile, God fucking dammit!

If that Changeling killed him, Derek was going to hunt him down in the afterlife, bring him back, and kill him all over again himself.

He heard the sound of something heavy hitting flesh and instantly changed course, rushing through some trees and seeing Stiles up ahead. He was still on his feet, which was a good thing. He had blood sliding down the side of his head from his hairline and his bat raised.

Something jumped at him and he swung at it, the loud thunking sound hitting again, the bat connecting with the Changeling. It let out a shout of anger, probably because it _hurt_  but wasn’t enough to take it down.

Derek hadn’t really thought much on his course of action when he caught up to Stiles, because he didn’t have a lighter or anything on him. When the Changeling charged at Stiles again, with him ready to swing his bat, Derek leapt out of the trees and tackled the thing to the ground.

He knew Scott would be pissed about it, but Derek wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind, and he literally saw red at the monster trying to harm the one person he cared about the most in his life. He wasn’t proud of what he did next, but he was just happy Stiles was okay, even if he planned on chewing him out until Stiles was an inch tall.

He didn’t remember doing it, but one second he was on top of the Changeling, and the next second it was missing its head. He didn’t know if decapitation was something that killed them, but considering the spasming body beneath him and the way it slowly crumbled and turned to ash, he was going to go with yes.

“I had that,” Stiles said coldly from behind him.

Derek tried to find patience, but he was all out of patience. He was all out of a lot of things.

He just got to his feet, rounded on Stiles, grabbed him by the front of the shirt and then slammed him back against a tree, lifting him off the ground.

Stiles looked startled for half a second, and then pissed when that emotion passed.

“What is _wrong_  with you?” Derek roared in his face. “Why are you _intent_  on getting yourself killed?!”

“It went after my dad!”

“So _what_?!” Derek was so loud that he heard his own voice echoing through the trees long after he’d finished shouting the words in Stiles’ face. “Stop trying to be the hero! You’re not a hero, Stiles! You’re just a _man_! A fucking _human_! You can’t _do_  shit like this!”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asked with a bitter laugh. “ _I’m_  not a hero? What about _you_ , Derek? You _always_  run head first into danger like some God damn martyr! While we’re all back formulating a plan, you’re already halfway to your own fucking _death_!”

Derek pulled him away from the tree, and slammed him back against it. Hard. Stiles let out a choked gasp, likely because Derek had pushed all the air out of his lungs, but that was good. It meant he’d shut his fucking stupid mouth.

“Don’t compare us,” he hissed in his face while Stiles continued to struggle to inhale. “We are _nothing_  alike. I was _born_  into this. You just decided trying to kill yourself by monster was a good way to go. Stop it.”

He let him go, Stiles stumbling slightly and wheezing to get air back into his lungs. Derek turned to check the Changeling was _still_  dead, then started heading back the way he’d come so he could get the hell out of there.

He heard footsteps chasing after him within seconds. Stiles grabbed at his arm and Derek wrenched it away roughly, rounding on him. Stiles was glaring like he thought he could scare him, which was laughable, because Stiles couldn’t scare _anyone_ , _least_  of all him.

“Just because you got woken up from something you wanted isn’t a reason for you to be a fucking _dick_ , Derek!” Stiles snapped. “I’m _sorry_  we had to get you out of there, but we didn’t want you to _die_! And did it maybe occur to you that _talking_  about what you saw might help you? That maybe if you just admitted what happened, how it affected you, what it meant to you, that it woul—”

Derek moved right up into Stiles’ space, the words catching in his throat, and he bared his teeth at him threateningly, eyes flashing.

“There is _nothing_  to talk about,” Derek snarled right in his face. “It was nothing. It _meant_  nothing. Just like you.”

Stiles looked like he’d just been struck, but it wasn’t enough. Derek wanted him to back off. Wanted him to just _go away_ so he never had to _look_  at him ever again.

So he didn’t have to keep picturing what his life had been like back when he’d _had_  him.

“You’re fucking _nothing_ ,” he leaned forward more and finally, _finally_ , Stiles took a step away from him. “I don’t even want to _look_  at you anymore.”

The confusion and hurt and slight fear wafting off Stiles was exactly what he wanted. Because if Stiles hated him, if Stiles was scared of him, then he would leave him alone.

And Derek would never have to see him again.

Derek turned and walked back the way he’d come, heading for the car so he could get the fuck out of there. “Stop trying to get yourself killed. Next time, I’ll let the monster fucking _eat_  you.”

He kept walking, and this time, probably for the first time, Stiles didn’t follow him.

Stiles let him walk away.

So he did.

* * *

Derek didn’t hear from the pack for a few days after the encounter in the woods with Stiles and the Changeling. He assumed Stiles had shared the conversation with the others and nobody wanted to speak to him anymore.

It was for the best, anyway. Maybe he could leave town, head back to New York, try and forget he’d ever come back and met Stiles. The longer the silence stretched, the more he thought about it to the point where he actually pulled out his duffel one day and sat staring at it for a good long while.

Before he got around to putting anything in it, someone knocked at the loft door. That was concerning, because nobody ever knocked. Derek couldn’t think of a single person who knocked barring either Deaton, Melissa or the sheriff, which meant it was one of those three people.

He was actually hoping for Deaton. He would’ve settled even for the sheriff, in this case. The only person he definitely did _not_  want was Melissa.

So of course, when he slid open the door, it was Melissa. Because why wouldn’t it be?

“Hello Derek.” She offered him a kind smile. “Can I come in?”

He wanted to say no, but that would be rude, and she’d never been anything but kind to him. So he moved aside and let her walk into the loft, closing the door behind her.

She was wearing her scrubs with a sweater overtop, suggesting she’d just gotten off shift. She didn’t have her purse with her, though. She moved into the loft, eying the duffel on his coffee table, and sat down on the couch.

“Going somewhere?”

“Thinking about it,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “You want a drink?”

“Coffee would be great, if you have some.”

“I’ll start a pot.”

Derek moved to the kitchen to do just that, getting a new filter into the machine and making sure there was enough water before starting it. Melissa stayed in the living room while Derek stared at the coffee machine. He knew she was aware that he was trying to procrastinate going back out there, and to her credit, she didn’t push him. She just let him stand in the kitchen until there was enough in the pot for a cup of coffee, then he turned off the machine, poured it into a mug, and brought it back out to her.

She smiled, thanking him, and set it down in front of her on the coffee table. Derek stayed standing where he was across from her and she gave him a look.

“Derek, I don’t want to speak with you while you loom over me like that.” She nodded her head towards the empty spot beside her and he grit his teeth before obeying, moving around the coffee table and sitting down, being sure to leave a cushion between them so they weren’t too close.

“You haven’t been around in a while,” she said, picking the coffee up and holding it in both hands, making no move to drink it.

“I haven’t been welcome.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Melissa said, inspecting every inch of his face. “Scott told me what he said to you. He’s too ashamed to face you, because he didn’t mean it. He’ll come around and apologize once he knows how to do it. He feels terrible.”

Derek had actually forgotten about Scott’s comment to him. He’d thought Scott had just decided Derek wasn’t worth his time anymore, he hadn’t realized Scott felt too guilty to touch base.

“And I’m assuming Stiles also told you what happened?” he said instead, because he wanted to stay mad at _someone_  and apparently Scott wasn’t it.

“Stiles has not said anything to anyone about anything,” Melissa informed him, which wasn’t what Derek had expected. “He said you saved him from the Changeling, but that you were still recovering from what the Witch did to you and that the pack should give you your space.”

Derek frowned. “He didn’t tell you about what I said?”

“Why, was there something you said that he should’ve shared?”

Derek thought back to the hurt look on Stiles’ face, to the way he’d physically taken a step back away from him, and shook his head. “No. There’s nothing.”

Melissa obviously didn’t believe him. “You know, I know talking to people isn’t something you do. Honestly, it’s not something a lot of the pack does, because you’re all used to just carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. But at the end of the day, you’re just kids, and we want to help you.” Melissa shifted closer, so that she was on the previously empty cushion that had been separating them. “Derek, I think you need to tell someone about what happened in there. Whatever you saw, whatever you experienced, we just want to help you.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, more snarl in his voice than he’d intended. “It was nothing, just a stupid thought I had that the Witch latched onto and made a reality. Stiles should just mind his own business, it didn’t mean anything.”

Melissa frowned. “What didn’t mean anything?”

“The dream. He’s getting too hung up on it, I don’t care about him at all.”

Melissa watched him for a long while, then set her coffee down before speaking again. “Derek, I think you’re reacting to anything I say going on the assumption that I know what happened when Stiles went into your head, but I don’t.”

Derek’s mind screeched to a halt. “What? But Stiles—”

“Hasn’t said anything. To anyone. At all. The only thing he’ll tell us about what he saw is that the Witch hurt you more than any of us could’ve imagined, and that he doesn’t know how to fix it. He won’t tell us what she did, he won’t tell us how much she hurt you, and he won’t tell us anything he saw.”

Stiles hadn’t told anyone? Stiles had _actually_  kept his mouth shut on what he’d seen?!

Melissa looked a little exasperated, likely at the shock on his face. “Derek, I know Stiles has a big mouth, but I think you need to give him a little more credit. How long did he lie to his father about Werewolves? He doesn’t share things that aren’t meant to be shared. Whatever he saw, whatever you experienced, is something only the two of you know. He isn’t going to tell anyone about it, he just wants you to be okay.” She reached out and touched his hand lightly. “Derek, we care about you. We all want you to be okay. But we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what you need. Stiles isn’t going to spill your secrets, so the only one who can help you is _you_.”

Derek had assumed this entire time that everyone knew exactly what his dream had been. He’d assumed that Stiles had told everyone and that they all pitied him for it.

Poor little Derek Hale, whose greatest wish in the world was to marry the spastic, suicidal human in their pack who couldn’t care less about him.

But apparently they _didn’t_  know that. And they _didn’t_  pity him. They just wanted to help. Because they cared.

Which was strange to Derek, because he’d never once assumed anyone cared about him. He was useful, so they liked having him around, but to realize that Scott felt guilty, and Stiles wanted to give him space, and Melissa was _worried_...

It was kind of a lot.

Melissa smiled, patting his hand lightly. “Sweetie, I know opening up isn’t really your thing, but I hope you know we’re here for you. If you want to talk, you know where to find me. I’m always available for any of my boys.”

Her boys.

Derek was considered one of her boys.

She reached out for the coffee, drank half of it down, then set the cup on the coffee table before standing. “Thanks for the coffee. I hope whatever the Witch did heals in time. We’re all here for you, even when you think that we’re not.”

She squeezed his shoulder gently, then moved back around the table, pulled open the loft door, exited, and shut it once more. Derek listened to her head back down the stairs and out of the building. He stayed where he was, listening to her start the car, curse when it stalled, try again, and then drive away.

He wasn’t sure what to do with any of this information, because he was so convinced his real life couldn’t ever be _close_  to what he’d dreamt up that finding things out like he had were throwing him off.

Scott _cared_  that he’d said something to hurt Derek. He felt guilty about it, and he was trying to work up the nerve to apologize.

Stiles _cared_  that Derek had been destroyed by the life he’d lived in his dream for seventeen years. He cared that Derek was hurting over it, and he hadn’t said anything to anyone because it wasn’t his place. He hadn’t even told anyone that Derek basically told him to fuck off and die, for all he cared.

Deaton had been coming by almost daily after Derek woke up to make sure he was doing okay. Melissa _had_  been coming by daily to check in and keep track of how he was doing physically, and mentally.

Hell, even _Malia_  had tried to come by a few times, but Derek avoided her the way he’d been avoiding virtually everyone else. His pack actually _cared_  about him. It wasn’t the perfect life he’d envisioned in his head, but it wasn’t as horrible as he’d convinced himself it was, either. He had people in his life. They weren’t perfect, and they didn’t always say the right thing, but they were his, and they were _here_ , and they were _real_.

And they cared.

Derek sat thinking about his life for a long while before finally getting to his feet, intent on going to... he didn’t know. See Stiles, maybe. Yell at him some more, because he didn’t really know what else to do.

He hadn’t even made it to the door when he heard someone enter the building. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard the stupid car pull up, and he didn’t have the energy to run away anymore, so he just stood in the middle of his living room while footsteps hurried up the stairs and the loft door was yanked open without so much as a cursory knock.

Because when had Stiles _ever_  knocked.

He paused in the doorway, likely startled at finding Derek just _standing_  there, but his expression hardened instantly and his eyes shifted to behind him. Derek turned to see what he was looking at and realized Melissa must’ve told the pack he was thinking of taking off for a while.

Well, forever, but he hadn’t told Melissa that.

“Going somewhere?” he asked coldly.

“It’s none of your business.” Derek turned to head for the kitchen. He didn’t know what he would do in there, but anything to avoid looking at Stiles.

“I think you running away is _entirely_  my business,” Stiles insisted, following him. Because of course he would follow him. “You tend to almost get killed a lot when left to your own devises.”

“Stop projecting, that’s _you_.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, was I the one who had a metal _pole_  shoved through my chest? Was I the one buried in a temple and de-aged? Was I the one who got thrown off the second floor of a building? Or the one who _literally_  died when a Beserker came after him?” Stiles snapped his fingers. “No, wait. No, that wasn’t me. It was fucking _you_!”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” Derek snapped at him.

“Yeah, and who do you have to thank for that?” Stiles demanded, moving right up into his space. “You’re really big on talking up how strong and powerful you are, but at the end of the day, you seem to forget how many times I’ve had to save your ass! Like in the pool, or when the FBI was after you, or when Alphas came at you, or when you were _dying in a dream_!”

“And you should’ve _left me there_!” Derek shouted, rounding on him and throwing a mug right past Stiles’ face. It smashed against the wall behind him, but Stiles didn’t even flinch. “You should’ve let me _die_ , Stiles! And just left me in that dream! At least I would’ve been _happy_!”

Stiles stared at him for a long time, jaw clenched and nodding slowly. Derek could smell the rage and hurt coming off him in waves. “And what about us, huh, Derek?” he asked, voice the lowest Derek had ever heard it. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Stiles this angry before. “Do you think we’d be happy? Do you think _I’d_  be happy?”

Derek got in his face again. Stiles stood his ground, but Derek didn’t care. He just pointed an angry finger right in his face. “You don’t get to make this about _you_ , Stiles! You have _no idea_ what I lost!”

“I was there, Derek,” Stiles spat. “I saw it.”

“It’s not the same thing!”

“Yes it is!”

Derek stood to his full height and bellowed, “No it’s _not_!”

“I want that too, Derek!”

For a few seconds, Derek wasn’t sure what he’d just heard. He stared at Stiles, and realized that somewhere in the shouting, his eyes had teared up and now there were tears spilling over his lashes, and Derek had no idea how they’d gone from angry to Stiles crying.

He took a step back, feeling drained, and just stared at Stiles because he didn’t understand what he was talking about.

Stiles brought one arm up, using the sleeve of his hoodie to wipe at his face angrily, but even as he brushed the tears away, more formed in his eyes and spilled over.

“That stupid, domestic life you had,” Stiles said, looking at his hands and sniffing once. “With the dumb house, and the lame minivan, and the daughter, and-and _you_.” Stiles glanced back up at him, and motioned himself emphatically with one hand, another tear slipping down his left cheek. “I _want_  that. But you—you _got_  it. Maybe it wasn’t real, and maybe it hurts now, but you _had_  that, Derek.” He shook his head, brushing his sleeve over his face again and looking out of the kitchen, shaking his head and licking his lips. “You had seventeen years of it. I got seventeen _minutes_. So don’t stand there and tell me it’s not the same thing.”

Derek couldn’t stop staring at him. At the way Stiles cleared his throat, sniffed, wiped at his face. The way he wouldn’t look at Derek, the hurt and anger and _want_  coming off him, almost suffocating in the small space of the kitchen. The way his heart was slamming in his chest, and his breathing was erratic like he couldn’t get himself back under control.

He’d been wrong. Derek had been so wrong. He’d spent all his time back from his dream thinking he was never going to have what he did. Longing for something that was never going to happen, but he’d never once thought about how that had affected Stiles. About how _Stiles_  felt, and what _Stiles_  wanted.

And that maybe Stiles seeing that had hurt him just as much as it had hurt Derek. Because maybe Stiles wanted the exact same thing, and just like Derek had never told him, Stiles had never told Derek, either.

Maybe that was why Stiles was so angry with him. Why he wanted to talk to him, why he’d been so fucking _hurt_  when Derek had insisted that the dream meant nothing.

That _Stiles_  meant nothing.

“Why?” Derek asked, because he didn’t know what else to say.

Stiles let out a bitter laugh, turning to look back at him and crossing his arms defensively, shifting his weight. “Why what?”

Derek chose his words very carefully, eyes inspecting every inch of Stiles’ face. “Why would you ever what that life? With me?”

Some of the hurt left Stiles then, and he just looked tired. Tired and frustrated and exhausted. “Because, asshole,” he said, an eye roll in his tone though he didn’t actually complete the action. “I’ve been trying to tell you since you woke up that I’m in love with you. I just—” Stiles cut off and shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t know. About you. That you felt the same way. Until I got in there, I didn’t know.”

Derek wondered how this could’ve played out had the roles been reversed. If he’d gone into Stiles’ dream to save him, and seen the same thing, would Stiles have been just as guarded and angry as Derek was when he woke up? Maybe that was part of the spell, giving people something they wanted so badly that living their real lives again seemed impossible.

But Stiles was _here_ , and he was _mad_ , and he was hurt, and he was just trying to make Derek understand that just because the dream was in Derek’s head didn’t mean that it wasn’t one Stiles wanted, too. And that was so crazy Derek was wondering if this was another dream, but he knew it wasn’t. Because everything still hurt so much, and nothing had hurt in the dream. And Stiles looked so broken, and lost, and like he wanted to simultaneously kiss Derek and kill him.

Stiles inhaled shakily and took a step forward, but made sure to keep plenty of space between them. “Derek, it’ll never be what it was,” he said quietly. “There’s no guarantee either of us will even live that long.” A sad reality, but the truth. “But can we—let’s just _try_. Let’s _try_  to be happy. You and me. This. Us.” He took another step closer, swallowing hard. “Maybe we don’t have a house. Maybe we never buy a minivan. Maybe we don’t have a daughter. But I can handle that. I can handle all of that as long as I have _you_.”

Derek was honestly scared to move, because what if he breathed too hard and this moment shattered? What if he reached out for Stiles, and another de-aged Stiles banged on his door, looking sixteen years old this time and telling him this was all a dream?

He didn’t want to go through all this again, only to lose it. But being in his dream had never hurt as much as the expression on Stiles’ face did. Only real life could hurt as much as this did.

So he reached out one hand, brought it to Stiles’ cheek, and used his thumb to brush away one of the tears on his face. Stiles just stared at him, as if afraid to move himself, and Derek took a step forward, wrapping his arms around him, and hugging him tightly. Stiles hugged him back, hands clenched in the material of his shirt, tugging hard enough the collar was choking Derek a little bit.

“It’s gonna hurt,” Derek said quietly. Because it always did.

“Everything always hurts,” Stiles insisted. “But our lives are shit enough that we deserve a break. We _deserve_  to get what we want, Derek. And I want you, for as long as you’ll have me. What do _you_  want?”

Derek had never been good with words, and Stiles knew that. So when Derek tightened his grip on him and buried his face in his neck, it was answer enough. Stiles just hugged him tighter, pressed his lips to Derek’s head, and promised that even if their life didn’t turn out exactly like his dream, they would damn well make it the best life they could.

* * *

It was exactly as Stiles had said it would be.

They grew up. They got jobs. They stayed together.

They didn’t buy a house, but they did buy a cozy little apartment. They didn’t have a huge wedding, but they did get married. They didn’t buy a minivan, but they did buy a spacious SUV. They didn’t have a daughter, but they did have twin boys.

They didn’t get lost in a dream, they got to live one.

And this was one Derek knew he would never wake up from, because this dream was real.

And it was more than he ever could’ve hoped for.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Lion King (c) Disney
> 
> Come chill with me on [Tumblr](https://isthatbloodonhisshirt.tumblr.com/).  
> (If it still exists by the time you read this lol)


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